


dandelions

by thebriars



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Drabble, Hanahaki Disease, Hurt/No Comfort, M/M, Post-Episode: S01E06 Rare Species, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-21
Updated: 2020-01-21
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:45:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22343500
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebriars/pseuds/thebriars
Summary: Maybe it was love that was stuck there in his throat, if the rambling passion he felt for his friend could be called such a thing. Maybe it was anger, or sadness, or fear. Maybe some horrible mixture of it all.After their confrontation, Jaskier makes his way back down the mountain.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 17
Kudos: 353





	dandelions

**Author's Note:**

> y'all keep talking about hanahaki on tumblr and so i wrote this short little thing about the concept. it's not particularly good or detailed, but it exists now and i figured it couldn't hurt to post it.

Jaskier wandered somewhat aimlessly after he and Geralt part, heading back down the mountain as if in a dream. No song came to him and the thought of strumming a light tune while he fled, cowardly as ever, from the camp at the peak, made him feel ill.

He didn’t quite feel solid, didn’t quite touch the ground or breathe in the thin air, and certainly didn’t think too much. He was good at this—pretending it was all okay. It was easy enough, if he just painted a lovely picture in his mind, just floated there in his secret world, delighting in imagined senses and manufactured memories.

He liked to pretend he was down in the low woods along the shores of the river that ran by his childhood home. Not particularly beautiful, especially when compared to the soaring landscape that spreads before him now, but familiar. Warm wind in his lungs and soft earth beneath his fingertips, a fire and a bed but a few steps away, and calm waters at the foot of the sloping bank that stretches down from the cluster of cottages at the edge of the wood… it was still etched in Jaskier’s mind as if he had been there yesterday. He still knew every protruding root and every patch of ferns, every rise and fall of the ground, every secret hiding place and every rabbits’ burrow. There, he was a child again, a child who sang more than he talked (which was really saying something), a child who stripped down to nothing and flung himself into the cool blue depths of the stream without hesitation.

Here he was steady, and he was not heartbroken or lonely or angry or lost.

So he stayed there in that perfect forest, basking in splintered sunlight and birdsong. In his mind, he was far, far away from this solitary mountain path, and his feet did not _hurt_ so and his eyes were not burning with unshed tears.

Part of him expected to hear footsteps behind him, crunching through the fine sandy gravel, and part of him expected to be caught in a moment with a hand on his shoulder or a familiar grunted version of his name. It would be only natural for them to make up quickly, if not _too_ quickly, for that was simply how they operated. They bit and bantered and occasionally they poked too hard and someone stumbled away, nursing a bruise (in Jaskier’s case) or becoming a walking brick wall (in Geralt’s) for a few hours until they fell back into it again.

Jaskier didn’t know what he would do without that rhythm, that pattern of change, and he didn’t want to think about it too much. After all, he was simply a child floating in a river, drifting a bit too far from home. Yes, he was just that and not much else—not a friend of the greatest warrior on the continent and certainly not a forlorn failure of a bard.

That’s what he was. He must have done something quite horrible to invoke such a reaction from Geralt, even if he didn’t have the faintest idea what. It was something, and he felt the guilt of it searing into his chest like an iron.

The pain of somehow hurting his dearest friend in the world was a bit more physical than he would have liked it to be. It echoed in his heart, a steady ache of regret and embarrassment and hatred, and it spread steadily out across his collarbone and down into his lungs, manifesting as pricks of pain like thorns coiled about his flesh and bone.

It was like an itch deep in his body, one no one could scratch but with a knife, and Jaskier paused in his mindless descent to the pine forest below to rest against a looming boulder and cough.

_Curse this parchment-air and curse that witcher._

He regretted the thought as soon as it crossed his mind, for he could never hate Geralt. He could never harbor any sort of ill-will towards his friend, especially when Geralt was the one who had dealt with Jaskier more patiently than anyone had ever before, the one who had protected him and healed him and saved him more times than Jaskier could count.

No, he could not be upset with him. He could only be upset with himself and with goddamn thorns in his chest.

He stopped again and tried to stifle his cough in the cuff of his doublet, but nothing could mask the abrasive rasp at the back of his throat. At this rate, he was going to draw every monster in the continent to him, and from the looks of it, there would be no witcher to jump out and beat them back with a sword.

There were no footsteps behind him, no grunts or muttered profanities or jabs at Jaskier’s profession. No one to ignore the halfhearted half-starts to songs he had only half-written, and certainly no one to soothe the gnawing ache in Jaskier’s very core.

But that was alright, because he was in a familiar forest, drifting down a familiar river and humming a familiar tune. He was not alone and he was not tearing his own heart apart with imaginary conversations and he was certainly not dreaming about an apology and a long night of slow forgiveness and appeasement.

 _Fuck_. There it was again.

The worst part of it all was that he couldn’t help but hope that Geralt could be something _more_ to him. He couldn’t help but imagine those strong hands about his waist and those strange eyes locked on his in the darkness. It was to that fantasy that he fled more often than not, for how could that quiet forest compare to the endless ocean of Geralt’s mind and the sturdy mountains of his body?

Jaskier didn’t often feel truly stupid, but that lonesome dream did seem to drain all reason and sensibility from his brain. Who could think of things to say when they were intertwined with the ghost of a god?

He was forced to stop yet again, and this time the cough was truly horrible, as if his lungs were trying to force something up and out, and he instinctively cupped his hands below his chin as he shook from the violent convulsions beneath his breast.

They calmed in a minute, and as he slowly opened his eyes, the blurred colors splattered across his palms came into focus. Red, of course, dark and damp, and something else, something that nearly looked like a leaf, or a petal. Jaskier blinked, stupid again, and turned his eyes upwards in hopes of finding some flowery branch above that would offer some explanation. He found only pale sky.

 _Strange_. Strange indeed.

But there was no time to pause and ponder, so he started up again, walking until the path became so steep and rocky that he had to work his way down inch by inch, sharp pebbles and edges tearing into his skin and clothing as he cautiously shuffled down a short cliff, and then a steeper one, until finally he reached a small, windy plateau.

The sun was inching down and Jaskier was nearly out of water and willpower, and on top of it all, every time his mind drifted back to wishful thinking, his lungs heaved angrily.

And still Geralt did not come for him.

A strange mixture of stubbornness and actual anger kept him going. The smart thing would be to wait and see if the witcher would at least accompany Jaskier back to safety—surely he could stomach a few days of silent mutual fuming, and maybe he’d come to his senses and act like less of a dick—but Jaskier was too much of a thickheaded ass to give Geralt the satisfaction. And he was too ashamed of himself and what he had done, whatever it was, to subject the poor man to his company when he clearly never wanted to see Jaskier again.

“Fair enough,” he muttered, sinking against the rock face and trying not to think too much about the sickening plummet to his death awaiting him if he should inch too close to the edge.

 _God_ , he wished Geralt were there. Even if they weren’t speaking, even if they weren’t even looking at each other, his mere presence would be worlds better than this.

And his lungs hurt worse than ever before, so much so that Jaskier felt tears budding in his eyes, and it felt as though something were lodged in his throat.

Maybe it was love that was stuck there, if the rambling passion he felt for his friend could be called such a thing. Maybe it was anger, or sadness, or fear. Maybe some horrible mixture of it all.

He started to cough, and once he gave way, there was no stopping, not even to catch his breath. It was as though his body was trying to suffocate him, trying to push out air that wasn’t there, and he _swore_ there was something there, something solid and strange, something tinged with the salt of his own blood.

And as the coughing fit seemed to shake him to his bones, Jaskier held himself against the wind, flashes of a brilliant sunset reminding him of the impending night—the cold, the loneliness, the danger.

It quelled eventually, and something rested on Jaskier’s tongue for a moment until he spit it out with revulsion.

A small yellow flower curled in his palm, as if it too cowered from the world around it, stained crimson at the edges and halfway to wilted, but a flower nonetheless. A dandelion, to be precise, not unlike the ones that sprung from the warm earth at the riverbank. Jaskier stared at the poor little thing, its petals shaking in the wind, somewhat numb and somewhat terrified, for he had been overcome by the crippling feeling that this was just the beginning of his nightmare.

**Author's Note:**

> well, hope you enjoyed! feel free to let me know what you thought and pleaseee come yell about this masterful show and adorable ship on [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/thebriars)!
> 
> UPDATE: working on a continuation so keep an eye out for that! sorry for the cliffhanger (haha, somewhat literally) XD


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